


Scraps

by v_xiii



Series: Fractals [1]
Category: Invader Zim
Genre: Gen, emotional anguish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 03:04:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14685140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_xiii/pseuds/v_xiii
Summary: Bob pities Red, and decides to give him a small gift.





	Scraps

Red lies still and lets his head empty, a dissociative meditation he's nearly mastered in captivity. The heavy collar around his neck affords him no sleep, a few hours of blessed oblivion would be too kind of his captors, but if his breathing and heart rate remain above threshold he won’t be electrocuted- a luxury Red _is_ grateful for. 

They’ve had to lessen the severity of his torture considerably, failing to take his fragility into account could easily kill him. Another fate to be ruled out, again that would be far too kind of his captors. Torturers. If Red were to die, who would be their example? 

If he had the energy he would have ripped the camera out of the wall mounted behind him. 

But they’ve done very well with keeping him too weak to walk, or object, let alone resist. He can’t even will himself to sit up right now- still curled up on the dirty floor of his cell where he was left hours before. Where another three had their fun. He doesn’t shudder, but cold crawls up his spine at the recollection. Rather than dwell on this Red returns to draining his mind of thought, pulling the plug and letting it all swirl down down and finally away to emptiness.

* * *

He’s shaken out of his trance again by the sound of footsteps in the corridor leading to his cell. Fear crawls back into him, he forgets that he is being recorded and lets out a long and fearful whimper, curls further into himself. But the footsteps grow quieter, not fainter as if moving away, but the echo dies off and the only the true sound of very light footfalls remain. Still, Red expects the worst, holds himself perfectly stiff and still when the lock mechanism clicks and the door creaks open. But it’s a short sound- the enterer slips in and closes the heavy door behind them in not even a second. Red can’t remember anyone who has hurt him that was so small. He starts to take a quick mental inventory when a hand on his cheek shatters both his thoughts and composure. It’s hardly the kick or whip he was expecting, but he still jerks away the same, an undignified yelp escapes him to echo off the walls. He can feel a small body beside him recoil in surprise. 

“Oh! Oh, sorry Red. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Red uncurls a bit, some tension leaves him and he looks up- or rather, turns to face the direction Bob’s voice comes from. He flinches again when Bob gently feels the sutures running along the seams of his eyelids, dull pain pulsing where pressure is applied. 

“They’re looking a little bit better…” he trails off, produces a cloth from somewhere on his person to gently wipe the area clean. Red stifles down more pained noises, holds himself stiff as not to move away. 

Quietly, he manages, “It still hurts.” Bob's hands fall away in realization. Red can hear Bob sigh, quietly, pitying. Silence settles between them, but Red hears some rummaging about. 

“Here, I’ve been holding onto this for you.” Bob's small hand gently grips his wrist, guiding him to touch something soft. A small blanket? A towel? Red takes hold of the material, rubs it against his palms, runs it between his hands, it seems familiar. Realization hits him suddenly. 

“Our robes?” His brow furrows, an odd gesture with his eyes sewn shut. He’s still facing the material in his palms, as if staring at it. “Is- is this Pur’s?’ His voice cracks with emotion; he stammers half thought thanks, thoroughly distracted, overwhelmed by the small gift. Eventually his mind becomes so occupied his jaw just clicks shut, and he very abruptly buries his face in the frayed fabric. Red huffs out a gasp of a breath from behind the cloth, he’s clutched it tight, knuckles paling around fistfuls.

“It’s alright Red,” but the solidarity goes unnoticed, and muffled sobs start to filter through and fill the room. Bob looks on silently, unsure of what to do, unsure what he was even expecting, he questions giving this to Red after all. He elects to close the distance between them, lay a hand on Red’s arm to comfort. As if on cue, Red degenerates into full on wailing. Defeated, heartbroken, he clutches Purple’s robe to his chest, curls around it and openly sobs over the loss of his brother. 

“Gentian, come back, come back, please. I need you!” Over and over he wails, tears leak around the sutures in his eyes and fall patternless down his cheeks. The constant beatings, all the abuse and starvation he could weather. But the faint smell of Purple and this scrap of what their lives used to be are enough to make the dam burst.

It’s too much. 

Lying there naked and sobbing- eyes sewn shut, a myriad of other wounds left open, the grit of the cell floor embedding into his skin and dirtying him further- Red is undone.

Bob sits with him until he exhausts himself, gently rubbing uninjured parts of Reds arms to offer what little comfort he can. Eventually Red comes back to himself, capable of thinking beyond his sorrow. His tears slowly dry, his breathing evens out, the flood waters swirl and blur circling the drain until emptiness fills his head again. The last scrap of his lost brother remains clutched tight under his chin.

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted to height-is-might.tumblr.com
> 
> Forgive the terse ending, I got sick of working at it. Constructive criticism and grammar/format critiques welcome! 
> 
> Thanks for reading


End file.
